


Top-Quality Sins

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Comeplay, Dom/sub, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Get on the bed," Dean commands against Sam's ear, voice a low leak of smoke, curling into his brain to lick around and destroy his self-control. Like he didn't have enough crap in his system taking care of that already. Like he's ever had a scrap of self-possession when they do this to start with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top-Quality Sins

Stairs. They're hard. As in difficult, not like concrete. Although, yeah, probably that too. Sam's doing his best not to find out first-hand about that last part. It would help if the damn things would quit shifting around like that.

Ok, possibly those last couple of Jager shots were overkill. The weed definitely was. Next time he's going to be sure to find out what Jeremy Evans' definition of "good shit" is before he smokes it. Being cool looks so much easier when Dean does it.

And speak of the devil. Dean's looking at the front door when Sam walks through it. Or possibly Sam's brain is just time-lagging enough that Dean had a chance to look up before Sam computed it.

Dean's sitting in the dark on the couch that came with their humble abode du jour, legs sprawled out wide and boneless in front of him. He's got one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, the other bracing a beer that's making a dark little ring of condensation on the thigh of his jeans. If Sam couldn't see his eyes in the blue-white wash of whatever he's watching on TV, he'd swear his brother was just flopped out loose and easy, but he can, and every catch of light shows him the intensity of forest-green locked on him like a Sam-seeking missile. Telling him exactly how this is going to go.

He's too messed up to act like that isn't half the reason he went out tonight in the first place. Maybe two-thirds. Never question a good excuse.  
"Have fun, kiddo?" Dean drawls, every syllable a challenge. He brings the beer can up to his mouth, eyes back on the TV as he swallows a gulp of it, slurps the little bit left hanging on the rim and licks the remainder off of his lips, leaving them slick and shiny. Sam licks his own, Pavlovian, does it again just because it feels good.

He's in that place just the right side of numb where everything is tingly and hyper-aware instead. Every shuff of fabric on his skin is electric, riding that edge of steel-wool grate, pebbling his nipples under the soft cotton of his shirt. Dean's shirt. Like he needed another excuse to get his brother's attention. He can tell Dean notices too, sizing Sam up out to the corner of his eye, the drag of his gaze like a slow lick all the way up Sam's body.

It's good, heavy, sluggishly nudging along the heat that flares whenever he thinks too hard about his brother, giving it plenty of time to slip through his veins, sink down into the marrow. Totally saturated with the shit Dean makes him feel.

"Yep," is all he says in response, toeing out of his tennis shoes before he crosses - right in front of the TV - to the back hallway. Dean will stop him if he wants this to go down here, or follow if he wants to take it somewhere else. Sam cool with it either way, as long as it happens - and there's no way it's not going to happen - although somewhere to get horizontal wouldn't be all bad, considering the way the walls keep trying to tilt sideways on him. His brother doesn't say anything and Sam's only halfway to their bedroom before the light behind him snuffs out.

Adrenalin spikes hard in the sudden darkness, plummeting like a stone through his gut and right down into his groin. He's had a semi for hours anticipating this and knowing Dean's behind him, following him along the pitch-black path to their room has him chubbing up so fast it almost hurts.

The window between their double beds looks out onto the condo development's parking lot, as close to full-up as a dive like this gets, everybody home for the night or out until morning. The one shitty streetlamp at the other end of the lot mixes with the moonlight enough to make the room seem bright after the darkness of the hallway.

He strips out of his - Dean's - shirt slowly, letting it stretch around his shoulders, muscles pulling and playing as he moves, pretending it's all casual and accidental instead of a calculated tease.

Dean's there. Sam knows it. Neither of them says a word.

At least not until Sam's shucked his pants too, revealing the pair of tight black boxer briefs that totally aren't his style but Dean has a not-so-secret hard-on for - they're always at the very top of the pile in Sam's duffle. That's when Dean says, "Hope it was worth it. Dad's gonna tan your ass."

It's a bluff. There were a couple of times when he was younger that Sam can remember his father spanking him, but mostly his punishments have come in the form of PT drills and interminable silences. All of which is beside the point because Dean's not going to tell Dad - whenever the hell he decides to show back up again - wouldn't even consider it. They both know the score here, it's just about going through the motions. If you're going to play the game, you have to play by the rules.

"C'mon, man, it's not a big deal." He tosses a little whine into his voice for effect, like he's really wheedling his brother into keeping a secret for him when they've had a much bigger one flowing back and forth between them like so much shared blood for years now. Maybe forever.  
"It's dangerous out there, Sammy," his brother lobs back, taking one step into the room to lean his shoulders back against the wood-applique wall, hips canted out. Sam's mouth swamps with thin saliva, metallicy after too much alcohol scrubbing the inside of his cheeks clean. In retaliation he scratches at the fine hair low on his belly, watching Dean watch him do it, the little flash of his tongue running just along the inside of his bottom lip.

Yeah, _out there_ is where it's dangerous. Sure.

"You do it all the time."

"I'm bigger than you."

"Older," he points out, because it's going to take a long-ass time before he gets tired of gloating that he's out-sized his big brother.

"Older," Dean grumbles an agreement, jaw tic-tic-ticking like he just can't stand it. Sam only smirks a little - no point in making it harder on himself later, not when he's so close to getting what he wants. "'S my job to protect you."

"So protect me," he shrugs back, "Don't tell Dad."  
His brother huffs something like a laugh and shakes his head. The body roll he does as he pushes himself off the wall borders on cruel and unusual but Sam can't say anything about it. Not yet. He bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste warm copper.

Dean steps in close enough that they're almost sharing air, heat of his brother's body shimmering like a fine powder on the surface of Sam's skin, not quite near enough to soak all the way in.  
 _  
Now._

"Please," he says and it's a part of the act as much as it's not, "I'll do anything."

The magic words, same as they've always been and so different too. He can't exactly remember when 'anything' stopped being about letting Dean have the last popsicle in the box or helping him wash the car for Dad and started being about Sam getting on his knees and swallowing what Dean gives him. Or bending over and spreading his legs. Or letting his nipples be bitten raw so Dean can brush up against him during the day and make him squirm. It's all fucked up and it's all so good he can barely breathe around it most of the time.

"Anything?" Dean asks as though there's a shot in hell of Sam backing down. He nods anyway, keeping his eyes big and open - probably still glassy with all the chemicals he can feel pulsing around under his skin, thinly veiled by a steady dump of endorphins - innocent, the way he learned to years ago. The way that's iron-clad guaranteed to make Dean lose his shit every single time.

Sure enough, his brother's pressed up tight against him in the blink of an eye, pinning his throbbing dick to his body and then torturing it by tugging the elastic waistband of his underwear down, molasses-slow; not pulling it out and tucking it under, just grinding the rough weave against the swollen head until the crown is peaking out, deep indigo in this light with all the blood swirling around just below the skin, collared by black fabric. It only lasts a second before he's snapping the band back up, hiding Sam away again with one more hard swipe of thumb.

"Get on the bed," Dean commands against Sam's ear, voice a low leak of smoke, curling into his brain to lick around and destroy his self-control. Like he didn't have enough crap in his system taking care of that already. Like he's ever had a scrap of self-possession when they do this.

Dean doesn't say which bed so Sam assumes his brother's. Maybe next time it will work out the other way around, but for tonight it's Dean's show and that makes Sam Dean's too. He's more high on that than whatever the hell was in Jeremy's weed.

Line-dried sheets have gone soft from Dean's body, off-brand detergent smothered by the smell of Dean's skin and the 99-cent soap that they share. It swallows Sam up as he settles on his back, just long enough to let his muscles go lax before Dean barks, "Other way."

There are actually several other ways - by now Sam has experienced just about every position he's ever dared to imagine plus a couple he would have said the human body wasn't capable of - but he has a pretty good idea which one his brother means. It's a little bit of a surprise - he'd been betting on Dean fucking his face or at least jacking off on him - but he can roll with it. His hole clenches up like a promise of exactly how much he can roll with it, sending a sick thrill zinging straight up his spine.

He flips over on his belly, fumbling a little with the alcohol keeping his head swimming, reassured by Dean's pleased hum, the way he adjusts his cock through his jeans.

"Just like that," his brother breathes, overheated and thready and still very much in control. Sam groans as his belly flip-flops, shame turning the back of his neck into a griddle. Shit. He should have known better. Of course Dean wasn't just going to give it to him easy, not when he could 'punish' Sam for being a bad boy.

Dean settles on Sam's bed, back to the wall, legs out just like he'd been on the couch only now his hand's cupped around the bulge of his fly instead of a beer. All of five feet and a zillion miles away from where Sam wants him.

Hiding his face in the sheets makes it hard to breathe, ratchets his internal temperature up from simmer to boil, but he needs the reprieve for just a second. He always expects that he's going to get over this - the shocky mix of embarrassment and want pulling him in two - but he hasn't and in a way he hopes he won't. Because as much as Dean watching him do this stuff makes his insides turn into a snarl of electrified knots, he gets off on it too. Gets off like fucking dying.

Slowly, Sam hikes one leg up on the bed and starts to rock himself down against the mattress, fucking himself against it like a little kid with his first hard-on.

They both have their things. Fetishes or whatever. This is Dean's; stripping away Sam's shell and making him touch himself, fuck himself, make himself come, no chance to turn it into a show or make it sexy. It doesn't escape him that this is the way it was when they first started, before Sam figured out how to make himself look hot when he did things, before he could tease. Just him and Dean in whatever little motel room they were trapped in up in that month, laying it all out for his big brother and hoping that his twitchy, jerky uncertainty was enough to make Dean happy.

He figures Dean getting off on Sam being broken open and desperate isn't any creepier than him wanting to have all of the seedy, twisted details of Dean’s fantasies growled in his ear while his brother fucks him raw.

What? Dean has a good voice, ok? And a really filthy mind. It's so not Sam's fault he developed an obsession with dirty talk, not when he's got a living, breathing porno sharing his gene pool.

Regardless, they've been committing incest basically since Dean was old enough to get hard, and seriously hardcore incest since Sam was; maybe even before that, depending on how you want to look at the way they've always lived all over each other. Any way you slice it, they're topping the charts on fucked up shit, so really Sam doesn't see a lot of ways that things getting a little kinky can make it any worse. Better, hell yes, but not worse.

The fabric of his underwear is soaking through with precome, turning harsher on his skin as the slick is absorbed and the cloth turns wet. Gritty and sweet, almost certain to leave a friction burn and God, there are like four thousand reasons why that shouldn't make him ever wetter but it does; thinking about how Dean will kiss over it tomorrow, hot tongue stinging, blistering his nerves before it mellows out to jolting, almost-too-much sensitivity.

Alright, so maybe Sam has kind of a thing for a touch of pain too. In his defense, he's had more stitches in his life than the average quilt, so it's only fair that he gets to have a coping mechanism.

Dean's stroking himself off, half-time to the tempo of Sam rutting up against the mattress like a bitch in heat. He hasn't even bothered to lower his pants, just pulled his cock out through the open zip to skim over and rub at, playing with it more than really working to get where he's going. Making it last.

"Pull the back down, wanna see that pretty little ass," Dean grits. He sounds like hell. A really damn pretty postcard of hell. Sam wants to vacation there.

He could pull his briefs all the way down, be totally bare for Dean, all spread out and hungry - because fuck yes, he's practically gagging for it - but he knows his brother well enough to guess where this is going to end and taking his shorts off would ruin it.

A moan ekes out of him as he complies, Dean's gaze on him like a physical weight, setting his skin ablaze. He sees his brother spit into his palm, smooth it over the leaking head and down the shaft, making it all shiny and mouth-watering.

This is how it goes for Sam; too ashamed to look at his brother when he starts and too turned on to look anywhere else by the time he finishes. Every fucking time.

Maybe if Dean didn't look like an advertisement for some top-quality sins it would help but he kind of doubts it. It sure as shit doesn't hurt that Dean's easily the hottest person Sam's ever set eyes on, but the odds are good that Sam would still be here any way around. What Dean makes him feel is a whole other level apart from even the most turned on Sam's ever gotten for anyone else and there's only a tiny sliver of that that's got anything to do with the purely physical stuff.

What does it – what really fucking does it, keeps him eager and crawling back for more all the time like he hasn’t been living on a steady diet of it for years - is the way Dean can make him stand up against a wall and jack off while he munches on popcorn like it's his own private entertainment or keep him hard with just a look as they drive down the highway with Sam's pants around his thighs and his junk on display so his big brother can admire the view. How he can do all of that and still whimper and plead for Sam when it's his turn, can bend over the trunk of the car because Sam wants him to and just take it like that's all he's made for, can slurp and swallow and submit like it’s what’s keeping him alive. How after all of that is said and done, he'll still be Sam's big brother, flicking his ear and giving him crap; icing his wounds and making him chicken soup when he gets sick. His best friend. Patient zero. The person who will always trump anyone and anything the world throws at Sam.

And that, more than the years of practice, than knowing exactly what turns Sam's crank, than being one damn hot motherfucker is why Dean is the one person who can run Sam right off the rails and make it feel like heaven. It's why Sam never stood a chance.

He feels the build, coiling hot and tight around the base of his spine, slithering up the column and squeezing raw nerves like a poison ivy vine. The soft heat of Dean's hand lands on him, still wet with spit and precome as he gently palms Sam's ass. Sam totally missed him getting up and walking over here but like fuck does it matter because Dean touching him is all it takes to flip the switch and snap that wire-taut want stringing him up.

His muscles lock in rhythmic spasms, so tight they burn for the flicker of a second between one peak and the next. The fabric of his underwear traps the sludgy wetness, pushes it back all around him so everything's hot and slick, tight between his body and the bed, like he's fucking a channel of his own come and it's really goddamn fantastic. Then there's a matching fire striping over his ass, dripping down between his thighs, over his tight, shuddering balls and that just drags it out longer, covered in come from both sides and nothing to do but moan for it.

And because that's not enough - because with Dean there's no such thing - Sam feels his brother's fingers smear through the mess, worm into the cleft and keep right on pushing until he's got one thick digit punched all the way up inside on the slick of Dean's fluid. And then another. And then that scalded-sugar burn is nailing his prostate like it's the emergency override button and for all Sam knows his body actually blurs at the edges. It's sure as fuck feels like it.

Dean's still petting him when he really gets back with it - his outside instead of his insides now, not that he can feel much difference between the two at the moment. Especially not with the way Dean's kissing along his neck, keeping him from completely surfacing from it. Sam lets out a sound that he doesn't have enough brain power to define and roots himself backward into the bend of Dean's body. Backward because it seems that at some point his brother got them turned over on their sides. Just like it seems that he pulled Sam's underwear back up, since he can feel it shift against his skin through the sticky come pasting the fabric to him. That's another one of Dean's things, making him wear it.

Actually, they have a lot of things, now that Sam thinks about it.

"Open," Dean orders softly and Sam manages to force his eyelids upward enough to see his brother holding out two aspirin for him. There's also a fizzing glass of what looks like Alka-Seltzer on the little desk between their beds. Alright, so maybe he'd been a little more fucked out than he thought if Dean had time to do all of that while he was out. Or Dean learned to teleport. One or the other.

That's when he remembers all of the shots. And the weed. Well, that might explain things a bit. Like why is stomach has decided now is a great time to do the hokey pokey. Being cool is a bitch. Life's so much easier as a 'geekboy'.

He sucks the aspirin out of Dean's grasp, getting a satisfyingly surprised puff of air against the back of his neck for the trouble. He downs it with the fizzing water, even the gritty bits at the bottom that make him want to gag. If there's one thing Dean knows, it's hangover remedies.  
Settling into his brother's arms is even better than the slight easing of the churn in his gut, especially when Dean slides a couple of fingers back into Sam's underwear and gathers up a little sheen of come from the dip of his back. He doesn't need to second command of "Open," to take them in, washing away the taste of medicine with the homey flavor of Dean.

Yes, alright, it's weird that the taste of his big brother's jizz is comforting to Sam. Most of the things about Sam's life are weird - at least this one's nice-weird.

"Better?" Deans asks quietly as he nibbles behind the curve of Sam's ear. He succeeds in a very succinct, "mmm," in reply, which seems fairly impressive what with the way his eyelids keep fluttering like a manic butterfly. It's all kinds of fantastic that Dean knows how to hit the spots to keep him buzzing with pleasure.

"You have fun tonight?" is his next question and Sam knows better than to think it has anything to do with what they just did – that answer would be pretty obvious. For reasons he will never fully understand, it seems to worry Dean that Sam would rather hole up in the library than do 'normal' high school stuff like chase girls and get wasted. Dean's the one who told him he should go to the party tonight in the first place.

His best answer is a shrug. Sure, the party was fine, and it was sort of nice to hang out for a while and pretend like he was just any other kid, even if these weren't exactly the kind of people he'd choose to hang out with his he really was any other kid. But coming home and getting off - Christ, did he ever - with his big brother was far and away the best part of his evening. He kind of doubts that pointing that out would be a good thing though. Dean still gets kind of strange about actively discussing the whole brother-sex thing sometimes.

The sigh he heaves tickles the hairs at Sam’s nape. "You are the worst teenager ever."

"Am not," he argues, because he's fairly certain that most parents would love to have a teenager like Sam. You know, minus the incest, obviously.

Dean kisses at the raised goosebumps at the top of Sam’s spine, this weird combination of arousing and relaxing. "Get some sleep, Sammy. I'll wake you up nice and easy in the morning," he says, one hand smoothing down Sam's chest, fingering just underneath the waistband of his briefs. Everything downstairs starts to stumble awake again, turning a lazy kind of hot that pools easily in the pit of his belly.

His, "Tease," might be a little more convincing as a complaint if he wasn't trying to snuggle back closer to his brother, as if they aren't already skin to skin.

"Only if I don't follow through," Dean purrs back. Sam doesn't feel anywhere near as embarrassed as he should about the shiver that rocks down his spine. Dean and his damn voice.

"Well then you better follow through, jerk." He loses a couple of letters there at the end on a yawn, but he's pretty sure Dean got the gist anyway. The way he leans over Sam to flick the blinds and shut out the hazy blue light from outside says he knows a goodnight when he hears it.

"Bitch," he chuckles settling back down against Sam, tucking his nose into the curliest bits of hair there at the back. Sam can feel his brother smiling against his skin as he drifts away into that fuzzy, in-between place before sleep takes him. And that right there? All Sam's ever really needed.


End file.
